Extraordinary
by Sara Wolfe
Summary: After ten years away, Lassiter comes back to Santa Barbara and is partnered with their best detective, psychic Shawn Spencer.
1. Chapter 1

**Extraordinary**

**Prologue **

**Oct. 15, 1995**

Shawn had been in Vegas for three months when they tracked him down. Or, rather, he was in the outskirts of Vegas, working as a line cook for a roadside diner, serving greasy food to burly truck drivers and tired, vacationing families.

"Spencer!" a voice bellowed, and Shawn turned to see his boss leaning out of his office, cordless phone in hand.

"Phone call!" the man continued, and Shawn quickly served the plates on the tray he was holding before he headed back to the back office.

"Who is it?" he asked, reaching for the phone, but his boss held it out of reach.

"I don't like my employees taking personal calls during their shift," the man said, nastily, and Shawn resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Would you be willing to make an exception?" he asked, fighting for patience.

His boss was a real piece of work, and normally Shawn would have taken off and found something new to do, rather than stick around in a place that bored him. But, Sophie, who worked on the night shift with him, was in an abusive relationship with her boyfriend, and he was trying to convince her to get out of it. And to do that, he couldn't leave his job, and he couldn't do anything to get himself fired, either.

Problem was, she was resisting his help out of fear of being hurt, and he was running out of options. He couldn't go to the local police when she wouldn't even press charges, and he really didn't want to confront the guy, personally, until there were no other choices. He was almost at the point of calling his dad and asking him for his advice on the situation.

"Can I take my phone call?" he asked, when his boss didn't say anything.

"You get five minutes," the other man snapped, handing him the phone with a huff.

Shawn swallowed the sarcastic retort that sprang to his lips and took the phone.

"Hello?" he said, into the receiver.

"Spencer?" a man's voice asked.

"Speaking," Shawn replied, wondering why the voice sounded familiar.

"Shawn, it's John Fenich," the man said.

"Hey, Chief," Shawn greeted the older man. "How've you been?"

"Shawn, I hate to be the one to have to tell you this," Fenich began, and Shawn felt his insides clench up in fear.

This was it. The knock on the door that he had spent most of his life dreading came in the form of a phone call while he wasn't even in the state. It wasn't supposed to happen like this; his dad was supposed to be invincible. He was Henry Spencer, for crying out loud.

"What happened to my dad?" he asked, quietly, struggling to maintain his composure.

"He's been shot, Shawn, I'm sorry," Fenich told him.

"No," Shawn said, in automatic denial, even though he knew the Chief wouldn't lie to him like that. "You're wrong. He can't be-"

"I'm sorry, Shawn," Fenich repeated, interrupted him, gently. "It was a routine traffic stop, and the guy pulled a gun on your father."

"Where is he?" Shawn asked, his mouth dry and his voice hoarse, like he'd been screaming. "What hospital did they take him to?"

"St. Mary's," Fenich said, and Shawn clicked off the phone without another word.

"I quit," he told his boss, who'd been shamelessly eavesdropping on his conversation.

"You can't quit," the man blustered, his face going red with anger. "We're in the middle of a morning rush."

Shawn looked out at the dining area, where there were two truckers at the bar nursing cups of coffee and a family of three sitting near the window, tucking into the diner's Early Bird Special.

"I can, and I am," he retorted, pulling his apron over his neck and tossing it on the cluttered desk that filled the small space. "See ya."

He headed out the back, snagging Sophie away the oven as he went by.

"I'm working," Sophie protested, as Shawn pulled her out into the back parking lot.

"Come back to Santa Barbara with me," he said, straddling his bike and kick-starting the motor. "I'll help you find a job, and you can sleep in my guest room until we find you a place to live."

"I can't just leave my job, my life," Sophie protested, weakly. "And I can't leave Roger."

"If you don't leave Roger, he's going to kill you," Shawn said, bluntly, not having time to be gentle. "Then what kind of life will you have?"

"My stuff," Sophie said, pleadingly.

"It's just stuff," Shawn argued. "Your life is worth more than just stuff."

Sophie hesitated for just a second, and then ripped off her own apron and got on the back of his bike, wrapping her arms around his waist. Shawn passed her a spare helmet, jamming his own onto his head, and when she was settled, he roared out of the parking lot.

They drove for nearly six hours, stopping only for gas, and once for lunch, a stale sandwich that Shawn bolted down without tasting. Every bite felt like glue on his tongue. Then they were off again, with Shawn pushing the bike to its limits, Sophie clinging to him tightly.

Shawn didn't know what angel was looking out for him on that trip, but he sped through at least half a dozen speed traps without being stopped, and a couple of times he was sure his speedometer hit the triple digit mark. They finally reached Santa Barbara in the early evening, and Shawn dropped Sophie off at his dad's house, showing her the neatly-kept guest room and the fully-stocked fridge.

"I've got something I need to take care of," he told her, dragging a hand over his face, feeling the adrenaline of the morning disappear as exhaustion hit him full force. "I don't know when I'll be able to be back."

"I'll be okay," Sophie promised him. "Shawn," she added, as he headed for the door, "thank you for everything. If you hadn't gotten me out of there-"

"You were the one who left," Shawn said, quietly. "I just gave you a ride. I'll be back later," he repeated, and then he shut the door behind him.

The drive to the hospital was another manic dash through the streets, one that he barely remembered, later. He threw the bike into park in the first empty spot he saw, sprinting across the parking lot to the doors of the emergency room.

"I'm looking for Henry Spencer," he demanded of the nurse at the front desk, unable to force himself to say the word 'morgue'.

She held up a single finger, signaling for him to wait, and Shawn huffed out a frustrated breath, drumming his fingers anxiously on the desk until she looked up at him.

"Spencer," she repeated, typing the name into her computer. "Are you family?"

"I'm his son," Shawn ground out, trying to resist the urge to reach across the desk and shake the woman until she told him what he needed to know.

"Right, Mr. Spencer," the woman went on, "it looks like Sergeant Spencer is still in surgery."

"Right, thanks," Shawn said, automatically, and then her words caught up with him. "Wait, surgery?"

"I know, he's been in there a while," the nurse told him, "but he took three bullets to the chest. That sort of operation takes time."

"It's not that," Shawn said, trying to explain. "It's just, I didn't get a lot details with the phone call, and I've been on the road for six hours – I was expecting to have to go to the morgue," he finished, numbly.

The nurse gave him a sympathetic look, full of understanding.

"Your father is in surgery," she said, her voice gentle. "I'll have the doctor come talk to you as soon as he gets out. There's some chairs over there in the waiting room," she added, gesturing.

"Thanks," Shawn said, still stunned by the revelation. "Do you-"

His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, starting over.

"Do you have a phone I could use?" he asked, quietly. "I need to make a quick phone call."

After a moment, the nurse passed him the phone, stretching the cord to the limit.

"Make it fast," she warned him.

"Thanks," Shawn said, again, and then he dialed a familiar number.

"Burton Guster," came the crisp, professional greeting, and Shawn felt the knot that had been tensed up in his stomach all morning relax a little bit at his best friend's voice.

"Gus, it's me," he said, and then he couldn't get anything more out over the outburst over the other end of the line.

"Shawn, where have you been? Do you know how long it's been since anyone's heard from you? Can't you even bother to send a simple postcard-"

"Gus," Shawn repeated, cutting him off, abruptly. "Gus, I'm back in Santa Barbara."

"Oh," Gus said, shocked into silence. "Well, where are you? Your dad's place?"

"St. Mary's Hospital," Shawn told him. "My dad got shot; he's in surgery."

His voice came out as a sob on the last word, and he clenched his jaw, breathing deeply to keep from losing control in the middle of the crowded waiting area.

"It's my dad, Gus," he said, shakily, and he heard papers rustling on the other end of the line.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Gus said, and Shawn let out a breath he hadn't even known he was holding.

Hanging up the phone, Shawn went over to the waiting area and sank down into one of the hard, plastic chairs, dropping his head into his hands. He managed to sit still for nearly half an hour, with impatient glances at his watch as his only movement before the nervous energy took over and he jumped to his feet, stalking out of the waiting area.

He paced down the hallway, at a speed slightly slower than a run, weaving in and around people that were too slow to get out of his way. Reaching the far end of the hospital, he spun on his heel and started back the way he'd come, his footsteps echoing slightly on the hard floor.

He was nearly back to the emergency waiting area when he was brought up short by a guy standing in an alcove, talking quietly on his cell phone. Shawn wouldn't have given the man a second thought except that he recognized the outline of a shoulder gun holster under the man's jacket, saw the glint of a badge at his waist. Shawn lingered until the cop had finished with his phone call, and then cornered him before he could leave the alcove.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, a bored tone in his voice.

"Are you on the Henry Spencer case?" Shawn asked.

"Who are you?" the cop asked, suspiciously.

"Shawn Spencer," Shawn told him, shortly.

"The son," the cop said, identifying him. "Pleasure to meet you."

He went to shove past Shawn, but Shawn stepped back into his path, stubbornly blocking him.

"How's the investigation going?" Shawn demanded, before the cop could leave.

"Ongoing," came the curt answer.

"Don't give me the party line you use to placate distraught families," Shawn snapped, angrily. "What kind of leads do you have on the guy that shot my dad?"

"Our investigation is ongoing," the cop repeated, with an infuriating smirk. "You want anything else, come find me when you've graduated from the police academy."

"Listen-"

"No, you listen," the cop retorted, stabbing a finger at Shawn's chest. "I'm not going to give important information on a criminal investigation to a civilian, only to watch you get yourself shot on some vendetta mission."

"Lassiter!" a voice called from down the hallway, and the cop turned to face the speaker.

"Be right there," he replied, and then he turned back to Shawn.

"Listen, kid," he said, his gruff voice softening in an obvious attempt to be placating. "You want to do something for your dad, go sit with him until he wakes up. Don't make him worry about you going off and getting yourself killed. Leave the police work to the police. "

He brushed past Shawn, leaving him standing, stunned, in the middle of the hallway. That was where the surgeon found him five minutes later, when he came to track him down after the surgery.

"Your dad's got a rough road ahead of him, son," the surgeon said, gently, as he led Shawn to the recovery room where his father was resting. "Two of those bullets were within millimeters of his heart; that's why the operation took such a long time. He'll spend a long time recovering from this, and he's not likely to ever go back to police work after this."

"That won't be a problem," Shawn told the doctor, who snorted in disbelief.

"I have yet to meet a cop who's happy about giving up the badge," he replied.

"I'll convince him," Shawn said, resolutely. "Somehow."

They arrived at the recovery room, then, and the doctor pulled away the curtain separating his dad's bed from the rest of the area. Shawn stopped short at the sight of his dad, needing a moment to process what he was seeing. He and his mom had weathered a lot of bad moments over the years, and then he'd had his share of solo scares when it had just been the two of them after the divorce, but nothing as bad as this. Nothing that had ever left his dad lying in a hospital bed with tubes and wires coming out of him, leaving him looking small and helpless.

He pulled the curtain shut after the doctor had left, sinking down into the chair beside the bed. Reaching out, he grabbed his dad's hand from where it was resting on top of the sheets, his fingers curling around his wrist to feel the steady heartbeat under his fingers.

"You know," he said to the unconscious man, trying to keep his tone light, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you did this just to get me to come home. Well, it worked. Now you're going to have to work to get rid of me."

His voice trailed off, and he stared down at his dad, listening to the slow beep of the machines hooked up to him, watched the jagged lines move across the screen.

"I'll make you a deal," Shawn said, his voice hoarse from the effort of holding back the tears that threatened to spill at any minute. "I'll go to the Academy. I'll become a cop, just like you've always wanted. And in return, all you have to do is wake up. Do you hear me? Wake up!"

His father's eyes remained stubbornly closed, and Shawn let out a slow breath.

"This is a one-time offer, Dad," he said, his voice shakier than he liked. "You just have to wake up by sunrise, okay?"

His second wind finally spent, Shawn slumped over in the chair, resting his head beside Henry's hand. He closed his eyes, only intending to rest for a minute, but the next thing he knew, there was sunlight streaming through the window, and something lightly brushed his cheek.

Jerking upright, Shawn stared down into Henry's tired blue eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.

"You been sitting there all night?" Henry whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"Would I be anywhere else?" Shawn asked, giving his dad's hand a reassuring squeeze. "How are you feeling, Dad?"

"Like I got run over by a Mack truck," came the quiet reply. "What are you thinking about?" he prompted, when Shawn remained quiet, staring into the distance.

"How long it'll take to make detective so I don't have to wear the uniform for the rest of my career," Shawn admitted.

"Don't knock the uniform," Henry grumbled, automatically, and then Shawn's words brought him up short. "You're gonna go to the Academy?"

"Just consider it your waking-up present," Shawn told him, giving him a weary smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

**Sep. 8, 2005**

"Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Shawn paused in his slow prowl of the dockyards at the sound of a faint footstep somewhere nearby.

"Sparky," he called out, keeping his voice quiet. "I know you're out there."

Carefully unsnapping his holster and removing his weapon, Shawn crept toward the footsteps. Pausing for a moment at the end of a pile of shipping containers, Shawn timed his moment, stepping out in front of Sparky's path right before the little weasel could bolt past him.

"Uh, hey, Detective," Conrad "Sparky" Hayes stammered, swallowing nervously at the sight of the service revolver in Shawn's hand.

"Going somewhere, Sparky?" Shawn asked, as the smaller man backed up against the shipping crates.

"Just – just waiting for you," Sparky said, his eyes darting nervously to a point over Shawn's shoulder.

Shawn resisted the urge to take a look for himself, not wanting to turn his back on Sparky for even a second. But, he could see faint shadows around the containers behind them, and he involuntarily tightened his grip on his gun.

"You've started smoking again," Shawn said, conversationally, moving slightly closer to Sparky, the better to get them into the shadows and out of the line of fire as fast as possible. "I thought you quit."

"I only smoke when I'm nervous," Sparky muttered, hesitantly.

"And what could you possibly have to be nervous about?" Shawn asked, keeping his voice low and edging slightly to the left to use a nearby puddle to keep their stalkers in view.

"Nothing," Sparky lied, his eyes flitting around guiltily, not meeting Shawn's gaze.

"If you're going to lie to me, you're going to have to do a better job than that," Shawn told him, quietly, and Sparky flinched, his face flushing a dark red in the dim light.

"Maybe I thought you weren't going to show up," Sparky replied, still not looking at Shawn.

He looked over Shawn's shoulder, again, and Shawn sighed, quietly.

"You know they're not going to leave you alive, right?" he asked, gently, and Sparky gave him a shocked, wide-eyed look.

"But they said-" he protested, and then bit the rest of his words off when he realized what he was saying.

"They told you that if you turned me over to them, you'd get to walk free," Shawn guessed, and Sparky nodded, miserably.

"Think about it for a second," he continued, as he grabbed Sparky by the arm and began to move him slowly away from the containers they were standing in front of. "You're a police informant; they're not going to take the chance that you're going to go to the cops after tonight."

"I don't want to die," Sparky whimpered, and Shawn shook his head in disgust.

"Then do exactly what I tell you," he snapped, keeping his voice low. "And don't make a sound."

He steered Sparky down a row of containers, keeping an eye out for anyone sneaking up on them. He ran them in a maze through the containers, trying to lose their pursuers in the shadows. Then, he stopped them at the end of a row, and Sparky shot him a panicked look.

"What are you doing?" the smaller man whimpered, and in answer, Shawn cupped his hands into a cradle.

"You're going to go up there, and you're going to keep quiet," Shawn hissed, jerking his head up at the top of the container. "I can't take care of this if I have to keep an eye on you, too."

Sparky put his foot in Shawn's hands, catching the edge of the container with his hands and pulling himself up onto the roof when Shawn boosted him up.

"But, what do I-"

"Shut up!" Shawn snapped, glaring at Sparky until he shrunk back out of sight.

Turning back around, Shawn crept back down the row. He'd only gone a few feet when he caught sight of a set of footprints visible on the wet concrete. He followed the footprints down to the end of the containers, moving slower to keep a better eye on his surroundings. At the end of the row, before he stepped out in the open he paused, his hand brushing the nearest container.

There was a bright flash in front of his eyes, and for a moment he could see a tall, dark man standing over the motionless body of a woman. There was a crowbar in his hand, and a pool of blood surrounded her head. Then, pain exploded in the back of his skull and he crumpled forward, slamming hard into the wet concrete.

Shawn tried to struggle to his feet and was only able to lurch forward about a foot away from his attacker. He gasped in pain as a hand grabbed the back of his shirt, dragging him to his feet and slamming him against the side of the metal container. He got a momentary glimpse of the man he'd seen standing over the woman's body, a scar over the man's eye burning itself into his memory, and then the man slammed a fist into his stomach, letting him crumple to the ground, again.

"Never should have come here, cop," the man growled. "Not that you'll live long enough to regret this."

The man made a gesture to someone standing in the shadows, and Shawn felt rough arms hauling him to his feet, holding him up when his legs wouldn't support his weight. Then, he felt himself being dragged forward, and even though he tried to fight back, he barely had the strength to put up even a hint of a struggle.

"So long, cop," he heard the man growl from behind him, and then Shawn was flying through the air to hit water that felt as hard as concrete.

He struggled to keep his head above water, but he could quickly feel himself losing his tenuous grip on consciousness, and he flailed, trying to catch something to hold onto. With one last burst of strength, he managed to grab onto the rough wood, splinters digging into his fingers as he clung desperately to his only support. Blinking away the blood that was running from a gash on his forehead into his eyes, he saw a dark shape standing over him, and then a foot slammed into the side of his head. Losing his grip, Shawn sank below the still, dark water with barely a ripple.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

**Two weeks later**

Carlton Lassiter stopped just inside the lobby doors of the Santa Barbara police station, taking a moment to reorient himself to a place he hadn't been inside for nearly ten years. He breathed in deeply, taking in the combined scents of ink, gunpowder, and coffee that permeated every station he'd been in during his career, a scent that meant home to him.

Making his way up the hallway, he stopped at the main desk, where a uniformed officer was talking on the phone. He cleared his throat when she didn't acknowledge him, and got an upraised finger for his trouble. She didn't even bother to look at him.

"I have a meeting with Interim Police Chief Vick," he told the woman, impatiently, and she pointed over his shoulder.

Craning his head around, he followed the direction of her finger, raising an eyebrow at the bench she was indicating. He took in the angry convict chained to the bench, and the implication that he was supposed to wait there, with what he considered remarkable patience, turning back to the still-chatting officer with a tight, forced smile.

"I have a meeting with Chief Vick," he repeated, tersely. "I'm Detective Carlton Lassiter."

The officer gestured to the bench again, imperiously, and Carlton let out a short laugh.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said, shortly. "If you think for one second think that I'm sitting there-"

"Um, Detective Lassiter?" A hesitant voice broke into his incipient tirade, and Carlton spun on the intruder, ready to rip into him.

"Detective Lassiter, I'm here to show you to Chief Vick's office," the young man stammered.

Carlton raked the young cop with his gaze, and it was obvious from the way he was holding himself, nervous as hell and shifting from foot to foot, that he'd only come over to try and keep the peace between him and the obviously-insolent desk clerk. But, Carlton decided that he didn't care why the kid was there, so long as he actually made his meeting with Chief Vick.

The officer, who introduced himself as McNabb, showed him to Chief Vick's office, and Carlton nodded a perfunctory thanks before going inside and shutting the door. Crossing the room, he offered his hand to the woman sitting behind the desk, blinking in surprise at her very pregnant belly.

"Problem, Detective?" she asked, eyeing him as she shook his hand.

"Not – not at all," Carlton said, quickly.

He sat down in the chair across the desk that she'd indicated, quickly deciding that saying anything else on the subject wasn't a prudent move. He hadn't grown up with two sisters without becoming a cautious man.

"So, Detective Lassiter," Vick started, opening a file that sat in front of her on her desk. "I see you've been with the Seattle PD for the last nine years."

"That's right," Carlton told her. "I was the head detective of the Ninth Precinct," he added, after a moment.

"Why'd you leave?" Vick asked, glancing down at his file.

"Personal reasons," Carlton said, shortly, and then he sighed when he saw her expression indicating that it wasn't a sufficient answer. "My brother was having some problems with his marriage, and I moved up north to help him with his kids."

"And now you've decided to come back to Santa Barbara," Vick prompted, when he fell silent.

"Seattle's wet," Carlton told her, and Vick's lips quirked in a smile at the grumpy tone in his voice.

"Missed the California sunshine?" she asked, lightly.

"Something like that," he replied, and then the rest of his words were cut off by an impatient voice from the bullpen.

Spinning around, he saw a young man standing in the center of the room, toe to toe with a woman who was glaring at him, disgust on her face.

"I do not need your help with my case," the woman snapped, irritation dripping from her tone at the words.

"Just take a look at the store manager," the man insisted, not backing down an inch. "I'm telling you, he's the one who's been robbing the stores."

"And how do you know that?" the woman asked, mockingly. "Did you have another one of your psychic visions?"

"What is your evidence, Detective?" came a quiet voice from his shoulder, and Carlton moved aside quickly as Vick stepped into the doorway of her office.

"The manager did an interview with Channel Eight News," the man told her, turning to face Vick. "I caught a replay of it this morning before I came in. He kept twitching his hands, a nervous tic. And he wouldn't look the cameraman in the eye. Kept looking everywhere else, could barely sit still during the interview."

"You can read guilt from a tv interview?" the woman asked, sneeringly.

"Can't you?" the man retorted, smirking.

"Enough!" Vick barked, before they could start bickering again. "Detective Barry," she continued, and the woman looked over, sharply, "Investigate the store manager."

Barry spluttered, but a hard look from Vick quelled any protest she might have made. She gave a short nod, stalking back to her desk without another word.

"Spencer, my office," Vick added, and the young man crossed the room to enter the office, leaning against the door after he'd shut it behind him.

"The store manager?" Vick asked, after she'd retaken her seat and from the tone of her voice, this was the sort of discussion they'd had often.

"The store manager," Spencer confirmed, with a grin. "He had to have had a partner, of course; there's no way one man could hit six stores simultaneously."

"But two men can?" Carlton asked, skeptically, before he thought about what he was saying.

"They can if they reset the time codes of the surveillance tapes," Spencer told him, turning to face him.

"Spencer, meet Detective Carlton Lassiter," Vick introduced them. "Lassiter, this is Detective Shawn Spencer."

"Nice to see you again," Spencer said, holding out a hand.

"Oh, good, you two know each other already," Vick said, and both men looked at her in surprise.

"Why is that good?" Carlton asked, suspiciously.

"Because the two of you are going to be working very closely for a while," Vick told him. "You, gentlemen, are going to be partners."

"I hardly think I need someone holding my hand," Carlton said, scoffing.

"Chief, I don't work with a partner," Spencer broke in at the same time.

"You do if you expect to ever get out from behind that desk," Vick said, a hard look on her face. "Because I'll be damned if I have a repeat of an enraged Henry Spencer storming in here because his only son got hurt on the job."

"I'm a cop," Spencer muttered under his breath. "Getting hurt is a risk I take. He knows that."

"But it doesn't mean that he has to accept it," Vick told him, having heard his mutter. "Especially when you didn't bother to call in for backup."

From the way Spencer was keeping suspiciously quiet, Carlton figured the accusation held weight.

"As for you, Detective," Vick continued, turning to face him, "Don't consider this hand-holding. Consider it a chance for you and Spencer to learn from each other."

She turned back to the pile of paperwork on her desk waiting for her attention, then looked back up at the men when she realized that neither of them had left.

"You can go now," she prompted, nodding at the door.

Carlton broke for the door, with Spencer a step behind him, and then the younger man stopped before leaving the office.

"Oh, yeah," he said, as if it had just occurred to him, "the guy you've got in Detention Room Two?"

"What about him?" Vick asked, warily.

"I'm guessing he's in for some kind of vandalism charge?" Spencer asked. "A car, from the looks of it."

"From the looks of what?" Vick asked, with considerable patience. Carlton had a feeling his own would be severely tested when dealing with the other detective.

"Just the shards of taillight on his sleeve that I saw him brushing off as I walked through the lobby," Spencer said, grinning. "Pieces fell into his left shoe."

"Didn't the guy find it strange that you were standing there staring at him?" Carlton asked, curious despite himself.

"I didn't say I was standing there," Spencer retorted, slipping past Carlton and out the door.

"Good luck," Vick told him, as he watched Spencer walk across the bullpen. "You're going to need it."

As he left the office, he heard the Chief call out to another officer, presumably telling him to check the shoes of the man detained in Two.

"Spencer!" Carlton barked out, in a tone that made most people freeze in their tracks. Spencer barely broke his stride.

Instead, he stopped by the desk of the officer who'd shown Carlton to the Chief's office, leaning against the desk as the young man looked up at him.

"Hey, Detective," McNabb said, a smile breaking out over his face.

"Ready for the big day?" Spencer asked, picking up a framed photo of McNabb with his arms around a woman with long, dark hair.

"I don't know who's more nervous, me or Sophie," McNabb admitted.

"Spencer, I'm talking to you," Carlton snapped as he reached the other man.

"Catch up with you later, McNabb," Spencer said, as he straightened. As he and Carlton walked over to the younger man's desk, he confided, "McNabb's getting married in a month."

"And I would care why?" Lassiter asked, and Spencer shook his head in exasperation.

"Never mind," he said.

"What did Detective Barry mean when she asked if you'd had one of your psychic visions?" Lassiter asked, trying to change the subject.

"Exactly what she said," Spencer told him. "I'm psychic."

Lassiter snorted out a disbelieving laugh. "There's no such thing," he scoffed.

"Two weeks ago," Spencer said, "I would have agreed with you." Reaching his desk, he added, "I'm working on a missing person's case right now. You ever hear of the McCallum family?"


End file.
